


When I'm Sixty-Four

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sentiment, a small bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock return to  London from the country on the occasion of their 20th wedding anniversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I'm Sixty-Four

**Author's Note:**

> The story doubles as an homage to my unforgettable visit to London in 2012.
> 
> When I'm Sixty-Four is from the Beatles Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album.

“John.”

“John.”

I feel a hand nudge my knee once…twice.  I squinch my eyes at the light, stretching my back and arms to ease some of the stiffness; I must have dozed off. I feel the train slowing and getting up I follow Sherlock to the informal queue in the aisle, grabbing our bags on the way.  In just moments we’ll be at the station.

We debark the train and thread our way through the crowd that always seems to accompany Victoria Station.  Making our way out to the sidewalk, Sherlock suddenly stops.  Seemingly oblivious to the people that have to maneuver around him in their rush, he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, nostrils flaring.  “Aaahh.  Do you smell that, John?”

“Smell what?”

“London!  There’s nothing like London air, I’ve missed it.”

Sherlock and I are celebrating two anniversaries tomorrow: the twenty-fifth of meeting and the twentieth of our marriage.  Twenty years!  I am still awed that I have had the honor of being the husband of the most magnificent man I have ever met.  Not to say the years have all been easy ones, tempestuous would be fitting description of our time together, but they have been good ones.  Challenging and stimulating, worth every gray hair I have on my head.

We moved out of Baker Street and into the country a few years ago.  Now _there_ was a battle.  Never one to do anything halfway, Sherlock’s newest fascination, bees (bees!) had been a point of contention for us.  Not that I have an objection to bees as a hobby, but bees in a flat in the heart of the city… bees in the sitting room, bees in the bedroom, bees in the goddamn toaster.  Getting stung on the arse while I took care of my daily constitutional had been the final straw.

“Sherlock!  Either we move to the country where bees belong, or they go!  By themselves.  No. More. Bees. In. The. Flat!”

“But, John…”

I could hear the petulance start to form in his voice.

“NO.  Just…no.”

“But John, what about my work with Scotland Yard?  You know very well the force is made up of incompetent amateurs that can’t find a suspect standing right in front of their noses unless there’s a neon sign pointing him out.  With Lestrade retired and me out of the city the crime rate in London will soar to an unprecedented level”, he sniffs.

“Much as I admire your attempt at, ahem, humility, you can do as much for them from the country as you do now.  You know you do most of your work these days by computer anyway.  We’ll get you the best wi-fi there is and they won’t even notice you’re not in London.  Not to hurt your feelings, love, but they might even appreciate it.”

Sherlock wasn’t happy about moving, but he’s mellowed (a bit) through the years, he’s better than he used to be at recognizing some common sense when it’s thrust in his face by a certain ex-soldier.  Notably, since our lengthy separation while Sherlock searched for Moriarty’s hit men (thinking of that period in our lives still makes my stomach clench even after all this time), he has shown more deference to my wishes. Well, he often does, anyway.  He does his best not to stress our relationship to the point where it might cause us to be apart again.  I think he feels he wouldn’t survive it a second time.  I’m almost certain I wouldn’t.

We take the elevator up to the fifth floor of the Grosvenor Hotel, just around the corner from the station, and let ourselves into our room.  I insert the key card into the slot to turn on the lights.  Illuminated in warm lighting, the room manages to pull off the difficult feat of melding coziness with dignity; it is comfortable.  We have a lovely view of Buckingham Road; it feels good to be in the bustle of the city again.  Though I can’t hear the street noise coming from below, I can see it is busy with buses, compact cars, and foot traffic. I watch the throngs of people scurry along the sidewalk, umbrellas bumping as their owners try to shield themselves from the soft rain.  Not quite home anymore, the city setting brings a nostalgic warmth to my chest.

I dock my iPhone on the small Bose speaker on the desk and turn on a classical station. Prokofiev.  Sherlock will miss his violin while we’re here, he doesn’t travel with it, but this will help soothe him.  Bach is still his favorite, but he’s become quite fond of the Russian composers. “If I can’t have as much drama in my own life at least I can live it vicariously through music, John”. 

Plopping myself on the firm mattress, I watch Sherlock pull his suits out of the bag and hang them in the closet.  I never tire of watching him.  Lithe as ever, he moves with the elegance of a dancer.  If he’d never become the world’s only Consulting Detective, I could have pictured him as a ballarino, he certainly had the height and grace for it.  Not to mention the flexibility, but, well…that’s another story.

Patting the soft wrinkles out of his trousers, he looks over at me and smiles, his eyes searching mine for a moment.  He must be agreeable with what he sees there, because his attention heads back to his task, humming along with the music. 

_______________

 “It’s alright, John.  Wake up, love.”

I wake up gasping, my cheeks wet with tears.

I hear Sherlock’s deep, soft voice near my ear; feel the palm of his hand holding my jaw, his thumb gently massaging my cheek.  His breath is warm on my face. 

The heaving of my chest slows as I relax into reality.  The nightmares have become increasingly rare, but sometimes when our routine is disrupted my dreams return me to horrors I never want to face again.  I sigh and lean into Sherlock’s chest, finding comfort in the rhythmic beat within, and from the strong, yet gentle, arm that wraps around my waist.  I nudge my leg between his knees and we lie there for a bit, enjoying the familiar intimacy.

My stomach grumbles, interrupting the peaceful moment.  Sherlock uses this as the opportunity to bound out of bed.  To the casual observer, this might look as though he has concern for me, heading over to the desk where the room service menu lay, but I know my man better than that.  His laptop is quickly propped open and turned on; he is in the middle of a case with Scotland Yard and he has refrained, with great difficulty, from checking the case every hour on the hour, if not more frequently.  He taps his fingers impatiently, waiting for the computer to boot up.   I don’t complain.  True, this anniversary trip, this second honeymoon, is supposed to be about us, but one can’t stop Sherlock from being, well, Sherlock.  Truth be told, I have no desire to.

“Toss me the menu, will you.”  I have my own priorities.  Sherlock picks up the binder and tosses it toward the bed.  “What sounds good to you, then?” I ask him, as I thumb through the pages, listing off several breakfast items that might be appealing to him. If he’s even remotely hungry, that is. “Sherlock?”  He waves his hand in the air and says “You choose”, his eyes glued to the screen.

“Hmmph”, he grumbles.  “I gave them the all they coordinates they need and they _still_ haven’t located the suspect.  Idiots.”  He types furiously into the computer, snapping the lid back shut.  “If they can’t find a 6’ 4’ transvestite with “Diva” tattooed on his cheek and wearing four-inch spike heels, then I’ll just let them stew for a while.  Besides, this is my anniversary and I intend to remind my delectable husband what a special man I think he is”.  He crosses over to the bed, sitting back down beside me.  Wrapping those erotic fingers around the back of my neck he begins to nibble on my ear, working down to create a trail along the side of my throat. 

I pull away slowly, but firmly.  “Much as I’d like to continue with that line of thought, I really can’t focus on anything at the moment but food” I say as my stomach growls once again, in confirmation. 

After enjoying a leisurely breakfast, we get ourselves properly dressed and head out for the day.  As we wander down to the Palace a short half mile away, soaking in the city atmosphere, we peer through the iron fence at the grandiose façade.  “Do you think the Queen has missed her ashtray, yet?” I ask.  “Which queen?” Sherlock replies dryly, an amused glint in his eye.  We break into robust giggles, enjoying our favorite memory of that day.  “Stop!” I cry.  “I can’t breathe!” I lean over, holding my hand to my stomach trying to catch my breath.

The late September sun is peeking through the clouds and I twine my fingers with Sherlock’s as we watch the tourists.  I suppose technically we are tourists, as well, but even though we don’t live here anymore it is still _our_ London. 

________________

“Ready?”

Sherlock meets my eyes solemnly and nods.

We head to the street and stand at the kerb, Sherlock raising his hand into the air to catch the attention of an empty cab.  We climb in and he instructs the cabbie “221b Baker Street”.  I look over at Sherlock and I can see from the set of his jaw he shares my sense of anticipation. We haven’t been to Baker Street in almost 3 years; it feels like a lifetime ago, yet at the same time it feels like yesterday.  So much of our life together took place at that address; it holds a treasure box of memories.  Despite this, there’s a sense of apprehension; this is the first time we’ll have been there since it has become a museum.  I don’t know how we’ll react to seeing our former home having been transformed into a commercial entity.

About 10 years ago Mycroft was forced into an age-related retirement from his “minor position” in the government.  Not one to sit idle, he took the opportunity to form A Consulting Detective Ltd, commonly known as ACD Ltd.  In large part, it is his way to help heal the contentious relationship he and Sherlock had “enjoyed” for so long.  Mycroft formed the company to protect Sherlock’s finances and name.  Sherlock, and me by association, had become a fascination for the public.  There has been many a book, a couple of movies, and even a television show, based on the world’s only Consulting Detective and his methods.  Sherlock’s name is Big Business.  Another bi-product of his fame was the conversion of our flat, and the floor below, into a museum, courtesy of the National Trust. 

“You alright?” I ask Sherlock.  I know I am the more sentimental one in this relationship, but I also know that 221b was the first time he ever felt he truly belonged someplace.  I think it will be harder for him to see it is effectively gone.

“It was just a flat, John”, he replies, a little harsher than he intended, I think.

Sliding across the seat to be near enough to him for our thighs to touch, I wrap my arm around his and watch the familiar scenery pass by the cab windows.  Not much has changed; a store front here or there indicates a new owner has taken possession, hoping they will have better luck than the previous tenants.

The cab stops across the street from the flat…the museum, and we get out.  As I pay the cabbie, Sherlock surveys the scene: eyes darting back and forth as he takes in the green and white façade, the fake bobby, the strangers coming and going from that beloved doorway. His face gives little hint to the thoughts and emotions hiding behind it. Lifting his coat collar up, his long legs lead the way across the precariously busy street. 

Safely arriving at the sidewalk in front of the building, Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back and we make our way inside.  The former front hallway has been turned into a book and souvenir shop.  Standing inside near the front door is a young lady dressed in Victorian garb.  The furnishings and décor are all Victorian. 

Sherlock approaches the young woman, looking down at her and sharply asking her with impatient curiosity, “Why is everything Victorian?  Sherlock Holmes is not of that era.”

The girl seems to take a good look at us now and it is evident from her startled reaction that she recognizes Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes!  No one, uhm, no one told us you were coming, it is …it is such an honor to have you here,” she stuttered. 

Not getting a response to his query, Sherlock, just _this side_ of rolling his eyes, turns on his heel towards a nearby shelf and runs a finger along the book spines-  The Blue Carbuncle, The Case of the Dancing Men, A Study in Pink- just a few amongst the dozens of titles.  He looks over at me and a small smile tugs at the side of his mouth.   I smile back at him.  To everyone else these are case histories; to us they are personal journals of our life together. 

We peruse the shop for a while, reminiscing.   There’s really no need to purchase anything, after all, I did write the majority of the books there, but I can’t resist buying a keychain bearing Sherlock’s likeness (“why always the hat, John?!), and the proclamation: The World’s Only Consulting Detective. 

As we leave the store behind us, I watch Sherlock, trying to assess his mood, hoping this hasn’t been too difficult for him.  He’s aware of my scrutiny and correctly deducing my concern; he takes my hand back in his and smiles at me softly. 

“You needn’t worry, John, I’m fine.  This is just a place, brick and mortar.  You John, _you_ are Home.” 

______________________

We make the short walk down to Regent’s Park.  Though autumn is officially upon us, the blooms are still prolific and vibrant.  The herons scattered throughout the park stand erect like sentries.  Their proud stance reminds me a little of Sherlock when he’s deep in thought, head held high, unaware of the world around him.

We find an empty bench near the lake to watch the water fowl.  As often happens, we have little need for words, enjoying our own thoughts and each other’s quiet company. 

We sit there for some time, when I notice Sherlock drawing in a breath, lips parting, as though he’s about to say something.  His eyes flit about and he makes another attempt at what he wants to say.  Never one much for introspection, or thought to others’ unless murder is involved, I am caught off guard when he asks “John.  What do you think you would be doing if we hadn’t met?”

My jaw dips a bit as I contemplate his question.  What is he really asking me? I ask myself.  He can’t be worried that after all this time I would think for a moment that this is not the life I want, that our union isn’t what has been as necessary to me as air since the day we met.  The afternoon sun catches the strands of grey hiding in his still mostly-dark head of hair, the crow’s feet that have settled around his eyes.  Some men have the good fortune of growing more handsome as they age and Sherlock was no less than beautiful to begin with.  He is breathtaking.

I decide I need respond to him honestly, he deserves no less than that.

“Well, if we hadn’t met, I suppose I would have found a desk job someplace, courted a nice girl and had some kids. Maybe have grandkids by now.  That was the plan, anyway. I think I would have had a certain sense of contentment in achieving what I set out to do. ”

Before he can start to read too much into what I just said, I continue. “But know this Sherlock. Know this. I don’t think there would be one moment in all that time that I would have been as happy as I have been, as I am, with you.  You are everything… _everything_ I never knew I wanted”.

He turns his head toward me and searching my face, finding the truth that settles there, he exhales in apparent relief.  “I love you”, he declares simply, giving my hand a tight squeeze. 

“And you?”  I ask.  “What do you think you would you be doing?”  It seems an odd question to ask him, but I’m hoping his response will give me some idea as to what brought him to approach the subject. 

Sherlock pauses, once again looking as though he’s searching for words that are just outside his grasp.  He slowly wipes his long thin fingers along the bottom lip he is biting as he forms his answer. 

“I wouldn’t” he said.   His gaze shifts downward and he starts to fiddle with my wedding band.

Puzzled, I ask “What do you mean, you “wouldn’t”?”

“If I hadn’t met you, I wouldn’t…be.”  He looks up from what his hands are doing and looks at me, somber, his eyes a dark blue-green in the fading light.

It takes me a moment to process this; a sharp “oh” escapes my mouth as I comprehend what he means.

“You know I don’t much believe in fate, John, but I think from the moment I opened my eyes it was written that I would love you. The night you killed that cabbie you saved my life in more than one way.  And every day since then you have continued to save it in at least some small way. I owe you so much.”

The gravity of his words, his tone, his sentiment, settle deep inside me to remind me for the thousandth time why I love him more than life itself.   Before I can get too maudlin, I clear my throat and try to lighten the mood a little, “Right then. You owe me some dinner, I’m starving.”  But I look at him softly, putting my hand on the side of his elegant neck, reaching over to press my mouth against his.

Moving back so I can see his eyes once again, he looks at me with all the love I could ever hope to see there and says, “Angelo’s?”


End file.
